


cold feet, warm heart

by kenopsia (indie)



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-20
Updated: 2016-12-20
Packaged: 2018-09-10 13:54:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8919679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indie/pseuds/kenopsia
Summary: It is suddenly and inexplicably snowing. Eames has a theory. For Fruityshirts, who wanted Eames/Yusuf and "blizzard."





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FruityShirts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FruityShirts/gifts).



“It’s snowing.” Arthur frowns.  

Eames leans back to get a better view of the window. It looks oppressive, ominous. It isn’t just snowing — the sky outside is a mess, howling wind and slanting, heavy snow. Arthur, on the other side of the hotel room is cradling his gun to his chest. “You can’t shoot the weather,” Eames says, dubious. 

“It wasn’t in the plan,” Arthur says. “Which means I need to figure out  _ why  _ things aren’t going according to plan.”

Eames makes a thoughtful noise. “Well, petal, you can feel free to investigate the weather, while I try to access the information in this safe before Richardson’s projections rappel up the building.”

“Fuck off, Eames. You’re the dreamer. If you didn’t plan spontaneous precipitation..” Arthur narrows his eyes. “You didn’t decide we needed some spontaneous Christmas cheer, did you?”

Eames makes a scandalized face. “With you being Jewish and Yusuf being ex-whatever, that wouldn't be very culturally competent of me.” 

That’s when it dawns on him.

Snow keeps falling in heavy swirls, in precisely the way snow falls in cartons and doesn’t in life, because Yusuf rarely witnesses actual snow. Eames is suddenly trying not to crack up. 

Arthur will not accept  _ no it’s okay it’s nothing it’s super normal random cartoonishly villainous snow,  _ but the timer is running down and the puzzle ball in Eames’ hands comes apart with a dull thunk and there are secrets to memorize before the kick.

Of course, “Yusuf must not be wearing socks,” makes for a pretty strange explanation, but Eames grunts it out while unrolling all the long, thin papers inside the contraption. “Arthur! Come make fucking heads or tails of this.”

“False,” Yusuf says, one level up.

“Your other feet,” Eames says. He means Yusuf’s awake feet.

“Oh.”

Arthur looks incredulous. “So we just had a spontaneous blizzard because your boyfriend is a drama queen?”

“Yusuf isn’t a drama queen!” Eames objects. And then, belatedly, “Nor is he my boyfriend.” 

Yusuf looks like he’d like the ground to swallow him up. “I told you,” he says. “There are reasons I don’t go into the field. Also, to be fair, I did decline the job the first four times you asked.”

“It’s sixty, topside. It is unseasonably warm.”

“I am an  _ orchid _ .”

“Fuck off,” Eames says. “You know Yusuf’s only here as a personal favor because none of us have the maths for this job.”

Before they scatter, Eames has one last thing to say to Arthur, discretely. He has to follow him into the bathroom like a pervert to do it. “You were right. He’s a bit dramatic.  _ But.  _ He’s not my boyfriend.”

Arthur shrugs. “Your loss, because he is definitely interested..”

*

“If you’ve got cold feet,” Eames says, “we should go somewhere warm.”

“Ha bloody ha,” Yusuf says. His hair is longer than usual, a riot of curls, and his face is unshaven. He looks good. He and Eames go back, back before Arthur sent Eames to recruit Yusuf back into the field after four failed tries because he doesn’t have the theoretical math for the mark’s secrets; back before they made 4.8 million pounds each — give or take one Dom Cobb’s share — to incept Robert Fischer; back before Eames spent three days in Yusuf’s dream den in Mombasa, trying to quell the withdrawal unquiet his body went through after he left the army. 

Before that, Yusuf had found him, in need of a replacement part on his PASIV, and said, “I heard you can acquire anything, Mr. Eames.” 

At that point, he’d been on the tail end of the moniker, ready to shed it for a new name and identity, except that he liked the way it came out of this handsome stranger’s mouth. 

“I mean it,” Eames says, his tongue darting out to nervously wet his lips. “Australia should be nice and hot this time of year.” 

Yusuf looks at the flashing screens above them, scanning. “Or. We could do Spain, take a boat off the coast… Christmas in the Canary Islands?”

Eames isn’t sure about what Arthur said, because he and Yusuf are still friends after that time Yusuf shot him down in no uncertain terms only because Eames takes rejection like a champ. But the fact that Arthur, whose job it is to notice everything, who who is the best at it… well. It’s a good sign, to be sure. 

*

Christmas in the Canary Islands is full of tourists. Eames fucking loves tourists.  


Yusuf is a killjoy, of course, and gets on the phone immediately after Eames comes home from his nighttime stroll. “Right. Can you just tell Mr. Childs that he left his wallet in the gents — yes, I forgot about it on my way up, but I’m going to send my companion down with it shortly — Ta.”  


“You’re no fun,” Eames pouts.  


“I suppose not,” Yusuf says, shrugging and rolling himself a delicate joint. Eames has no idea where the man even located Rizla paper, let  _ alone  _ the weed, one day into their trip. “If you want to get high and have sex, I would recommend that you be quick about that wallet.”   


“I made that suggestion  _ years  _ ago.” Eames grumbles.   


“Yes,” Yusuf says, groping for a lighter, mouth curled. “And you were obviously of dubious moral character at the time.”  


Eames can’t really argue with that. “Are you saying that my moral character has improved?”  


Yusuf lights the end of his joint and rests one hand on the clasp of his khakis. “Not a bit,” he crows. “But I picked up some criminal tendencies of my own.”  


“And here you are, making me return some poor bastard’s wallet like some kind of Samaritan.”  


“Yes,” Yusuf says, serene as he single handedly works the clasp open and drags his knuckles across his newly-exposed pants. His eyelids flutter closed briefly. “We contain multitudes.”  


Eames makes it down the stairs to the hotel lobby in record time. 


End file.
